Boy Anachronism
by Raven's Wing
Summary: theirs' is a love story, but not a romance. drugs, sex, and razor blades. they never saw the cliche coming. [modernfic, dark!Spot, COMPLETE]
1. preface

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: modern fiction based off of a poem I wrote while I working camps. _Loving Brooklyn_ will be updated hopefully before school starts. This is very different from anything I've posted before. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Warning**: PG (angsty themes)

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**Preface**

i.)   
Boy Anachronism's number breeds on bathroom walls  
(i guess you could say he's left his mark)  
bright colors & darker stares  
she says: "i've never hated caring about someone so much"  
"you'll hate more than that if you stay"  
"that'd better be a promise"

ii.)  
Girl Explicit does not understand  
(herself or him)  
BLACK marks mirror white to make a map  
his treasure's are too well hidden for her fingertips to find  
he says: "everything f.a.d.e.s"  
even relationships have an afterglow

iii.)  
he has rock star colored dreams  
high life – low morals  
she _thrives_ on his tainted tears  
suffering only adds to the flavor  
they leave mutual marks – some intended – some not  
only they knew which was what

iv.)  
honesty only gets in the(_ir_) way  
they need emotional subtitles  
he gives warnings (but she doesn't listen (care?))  
to him: fidelity is a 4our letter word  
on a red letter day he says he won't leave  
(he doesn't say he won't disappear)

v.)  
he is gone most of the time (but he's still there)  
ruby red slippers match guilty hands  
she flinches from his touch – afraid of finding something true  
he's p.o.p.p.i.n.g his seams with secrets like an old wineskin  
(she never liked his vintage)  
he's buried too deep to dig himself out (but he'll try)

vi.)  
some call it a cry for help  
(but he never made a sound)  
fading can take too long for an impatient boy  
he says: "**it was supposed to make you disappear**."  
for the first time – that idea is appealing.  
he hates her more than dying.

vii.)  
drought begs attention (he makes her beg)  
his veils are drawn TIGHT & thin  
the more they find – the less they know  
life is easier based on hypothesis  
she's misplaced her car keys (& her heart)  
& her truth detector

viii.)   
tonight he glows in mile thick mystique  
his licorice tongue has nasty habits  
b r e a k it up to b r e a k it down  
she starting to hate his cheap cigarettes & day old gin  
(but not) him  
moving out(on) is(n't) an option

ix.)  
they're fighting to breathe (and losing)  
choked by irony & illusions  
they'll never be all she wants  
(he's missed her for years)  
& that's only the beginning  
he can't imagine how wrong he's been

x.)  
he'd always been infatuated with _penetration_  
invasive – just like him  
she couldn't love the death out of him  
his succubus nature made it difficult  
he says: "everything _fades_"  
he was dead (wrong)

* * *

**A/N:** A new chapter will be posted with each of these parts. So there will be 10 (11 if you include this preface) chapters total. The chapters will elaborate on the idea of the poem and tell more of the story with it. I'm excited. 


	2. 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: extrapolation on the theme of the first poem. This is very different than everything else I've posted for Newsies fan fiction. Which newsie it is will become clearer as time goes on. This will be moving to M in future chapters I think. FYI.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (angsty themes, adult situations)

* * *

**Chapter One**

i.)  
Boy Anachronism's number breeds on bathroom walls  
(i guess you could say he's left his mark)  
bright colors & darker stares  
she says: "I've never hated caring about someone so much"  
"you'll hate more than that if you stay"  
"that'd better be a promise"

* * *

The bathroom walls and stalls were testament to conquests and requests. Girls left the seven numbers like an advertisement with a few words if they wanted. If you kept tabs you'd see that his numbers appeared the most but never with any commentary. You could say he'd left them speechless but that wouldn't be true. If he'd left them speechless – how would she have heard of him?

Hushed voices spoke of twisted black glitter smiles and pearly white lashes (he liked to do it backwards). Everything about him reflected in his frighteningly reverse appearance. He wore his smiles loose like his morals and his pants tight to his skin like his emotions. You always knew exactly who he was when you saw him – even if you'd never seen him before.

Across a crowded room she catches sight of him: Boy Anachronism(out of time, out of place, out of luck). His clothes fit his body like an ardent lover. Ultra low rise denim clings to cat-like hips barely stopping before the cleft of his butt cheeks. A black shirt, as shredded and ripped as his memories, flirts with indecency. Jet black hair, spiked like his drink, has streaks of magenta and blue hanging into his salt corroded Atlantic eyes. He hides the ragged coral red shores with thick kohl lines. It make sense that his appearance is just as jumbled as he in inside and it doesn't take her long to track him down because of it.

Sitting next to him at the bar she appreciates how he ignores her. The scars on his arms and the white blonde streaks in his hair glow bright in the black lights. A string of dental floss holding a key around his neck glows just as brightly and she wonders if that could be the key to his heart.

"I think I love you." She writes in black ink on a paper napkin (the thumping bass in the club is too loud for them to talk) and gives it to him.

In return he gives her a smirk and the finger.

Even though she could just take his number from one of the hundred postings across the town bar bathrooms – that just wouldn't be good enough. She knew he was used to that. She craves the chase as much as she craves him. So she sets off to find every etching of his phone's address – one stall doors and by stained mirrors – and with her black pen she scribes her message every time she finds him.

"I think I love you."

It isn't long before Boy Anachronism hears of her editorializing of his boldface testaments of promiscuity and obscurity. It doesn't take him long to catch her in the act (he's always had a seventh sense about these kinds of things(sexuality was his sixth)). He doesn't pay attention to the gendered signs. His modesty was lost too long ago to have something so small faze him (he finds non-co-ed bathrooms antiquated anyway). When she looks up at sees him leaning against the doorjamb he looks like he has always been there.

With as a gaze as dark and purposeful as the eyeliner around those tidal wave eyes he takes in her juvenile proclamation. He smiles his loose smile which cracks a smirk that starts at the tip of his toes and shoots up to the stars (he'd always been larger than life).

"You shouldn't." he warns.

"I do."

There aren't any more words (communication would always be an issue) and he waits for her as she comes towards him. On ballerina tip toes she marks six numbers on the skin of his neck with her same black pen. In place of the 0ero she presses a red ring from her sparkling lips to the skin just above his collar. The other perfume and lip stains on the rim of his shirt doesn't go unnoticed by her and she uses it as a reminder that he leaves a piece of himself wherever he goes and has no room for jealousy.

"I've never hated caring about someone so much."

"You'll hate more than that if you stay."

"That'd better be a promise."

Dark words gave way to darker looks and she didn't have time to edit any more bathroom walls. It was his turn to leave his mark on the girl on the cold tile floor.

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**A/N**: Review? Please? Love it? Hate it? 


	3. 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: I think I'm in love with this story.

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**Warning**: PG-15 (angst, adult situations)

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**Chapter 2**

ii.)  
Girl Explicit does not understand  
(herself or him)  
BLACK marks mirror white to make a map  
his treasure's are too well hidden for her fingertips to find  
he says: "everything f.a.d.e.s"  
even relationships have an afterglow

* * *

They call him Boy Anachronism because he always seems to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. He calls her Girl Explicit because she wears her heart on her sleeve and never leaves anything to the imagination. He doesn't bother to explain this to her, and it is better that way. Communication is secondary and often gets lost in his messes. If she thought it important he knows that she could look it up (the internet was nearby since dictionaries are archaic), but she spends all of her time thinking about him (and no matter how hard she searched – she would never find mention of him besides the bathroom walls.).

Black marks from a magic markers – oh the magic they could bring – ran concurrently with pale pink and white dashes like a map on his skin. With her fingertips she traces the pattern but they never quite found the treasure that he'd hidden far too deeply inside for her to find (did he even know where it was?). Just before she manages to put together all of the pieces the marks fade and change into new unexplored paths. New lines crisscross over older ones, scars or otherwise, in glorious disarray. He was just as cluttered on the inside.

"Why not just get a tattoo?" she asks as she watches him retrace old lines.

"Everything natural fades. Making it permanent hurts." Something in the way she speaks sets his stomach on edge.

She should worry, but she doesn't. Deep inside, but not quite as deep as his treasure, she hopes to change his philosophy (even if it is just a little). For now, however, she'd settle for temporary. She'd find another time to talk about it (at least that's what she tells herself). They have a habit of paving over cracks (gaping holes) in their relationship with sex and drugs. This instance is no exception.

Girl Explicit kisses Boy Anachronism. The girl's lips are larger and hungrier than the boy's and all she wants is to swallow him whole (she just wants him _inside_ of her). He tastes like cigarettes, day old gin, and strawberries. It is a combination as odd and ever changing as the boy. Her fingers move along his skin like a blind girl reading Braille. Those sensitive pads of her fingers notice all of the new gashes and marks on his body and she wonders when he has the time to make them. It isn't that they are always together – she just hates seeing him tear himself apart.

He is so pale that his skin is almost opaque. His body is like bamboo; long, thin, pale, and surprisingly breakable (not to mention hollow). Her hummingbird heart beats ten miles a minute when he touches her and she can see that his mirrors her own. Maybe it was just a figment of her imagination, but she could have sworn she could see his throbbing heart rocking his sternum (what would she give just to crawl inside of that barely-there heart and find out what really made it beat?). On her back beneath him she traces down his Christmas bulb spine and stares into his wide Atlantic eyes (she drowning in his undertow). Sometimes she swears that he is the one who is disappearing and not the fading ink, scabs, and scars on his body.

She would have been petrified if she knew how true that was.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to stress, Dippy Conlon, and xoborogrlxo for the reviews.

To anyone who is reading this – I'd love feedback on this piece. It is different than anything else I've really ever done so flames, constructive criticism, rave reviews, and/or anything in between are all way welcome!


	4. 3

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: Ugh. This story is breaking my freaking heart.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (adult situations and drug references)

* * *

**Chapter 3**

iii.)  
he has rock star colored dreams  
high life – low morals  
she _thrives_ on his tainted tears  
suffering only adds to the flavor  
they leave mutual marks – some intended – some not  
only they knew which was what

* * *

He believes in living big and paying little. The markers which lent themselves to his artful mutilations proved true when there wasn't enough cash for a prettily rolled blunt. Most times there was enough money for the supplies because it is always cheaper to roll them yourself, but he never would. Somehow – he was above that (even if he was only a two dollar man-whore).

Girl Explicit found Boy Anachronism like this (more often than she'd like to admit): passed out on the bathroom floor or floating by on his delusions with a marker in one hand a blade in the other. You could tell he was high by the marks at the end of his nose where the felt-tip branded him. She'd touch him then and look at his glassy lips and painted eyes (he was never more lost or backwards than in these moments).

Caught in a dizzy fog he would talk of rubies, witches, and scarecrows. It was never her intention to follow him over the rainbow, but sometimes it just happened (tornados are very persuasive). Tumbling wildly from the sky with Dorothy red slippers and landing on golden bricks – he always made sure to include the gold, rubies, and emeralds because he had expensive taste. They laughed in poppy fields on the way to the Emerald City (he wanted to see how mighty Oz could be and if the Emeralds had any worth) and nibbled on corn stolen from said scarecrow. The corn too was gold but the flavor wasn't as rich as they'd hoped.

Then – _tap tap tap_ – they were home and no better for it. Here there was no golden road or cities painted envy green to hide their flaws. Here every imperfection was painfully visible. Here life wasn't bright in its over saturated Technicolor glory (life hurts more in black&white). Here they were dark and alone.

Glass like orbs slid down a mascara stained cheek. The Atlantic was overflowing. Coming down always hit him hard. She caught every last remnant of his agony on an eager tongue. The drops lacked the bitter ocean salt that crusted like diamonds in his tear ducts, but were sweet. This wasn't the sugar and candy flavor but a mature nectar. With every new cut that appeared on his body the taste intensified (because suffering lends itself to flavor). Since kind words fell so rarely from those black twisted glitter lips – Girl Explicit absorbed this sweetness with childish exuberance. It was proof to him that the ability to love hadn't completely bled out from his body.

She wondered how long he would last in this torrent of tears. The Boy Anachronism cried like summer rain: brutal, hot, and unpredictable. In the back of her mind Girl Explicit hoped he would stay like this forever (or at least long enough to love her) but he never failed to remind her that all of this was temporary. Eventually he would fade away, just like his tears, and take his hidden sweetness with her.

"1ne more day." She'd bargain; he'd stay. "No one will love you like I do." Promises she thinks aren't empty.

"I hope not." He murmurs in disgust.

Her love repulses him because he doesn't understand it. How can he when he doesn't understand himself (or maybe he understands too well?).

It is Wednesday but the day calendar on his wall says Saturday. Maybe in Oz (or wherever the hell he is) it is Saturday, but that doesn't change the here and now (even though he would have killed to change it).

He's sprawled out on his belly on their bed and she straddles his back. With her own black felt-tipped marker (the same one she used in the bathroom) she works her own magic. Lines tickle their way down his skin in places he can't reach.

"**NEVER LEAVE ME**"

The bold black letters run down the familiar bumps of his protruding spine. He reads it in the mirror and looks at her.

"Promises fade faster than ink." He reminds of his philosophy, but later – with white knuckles clutching whiter sheets and sweat rolling down their bodies – he whispers in her ear: "Never leave me. Don't fade."

"I won't." She breathes.

When it is all over – he turns away.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to stress, xoborogrlox and Purple Rhapsody for reviewing. I love it. 

I also love this story.

And I love Spot.

And Johnny Depp.

Not necessarily in that order, but who cares?

I also love reviews. coughhintcough


	5. 4

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: This is easier to write since I've already done all of the rough drafts at camp. So I can cut straight to the editing process. Very nice for you all since you're getting nice quick updates. It also helps that these are never longer than two pages typed...

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (adult situations, drug use)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

iv.)  
honesty only gets in the(_ir_) way  
they need emotional subtitles  
he gives warnings (but she doesn't listen (care?))  
to him: fidelity is a 4our letter word  
on a red letter day he says he won't leave  
(he doesn't say he won't disappear)

* * *

She doesn't want his truths – she wants his promises (whether they fade or not). She wants to take that key from his neck and unlock him unto her. She wants all of the things he says he could (will) be if that would mean that he would love her. Girl Explicit doesn't want Boy Anachronism any other way than what he is; she just wants him to love her because then everything else would fall into place (or so she believes because that is what Hollywood tells her). He doesn't understand. Again – communication is lost in the haze of drugs, sex, and drama.

There is always something different about him. Another mark on his skin (ink or otherwise), another colorful streak in his hair, or a new hole he's pierced with a safety pin. He always keeps her guessing. Inside he wonders that if he changes enough she'll stop loving him (and he hopes so). These aren't the vows, oaths, and changes she wants from him. All she wants is for him to love her like she loves him: obsessive & all consuming.

"Emotions fade." He tells her.

"Love isn't an emotion." She replies.

"Then what is it?"

When she can't come up with an answer (where was Hollywood with a script when she needed it?) there is a coy smirk that stretches across his lips and he reaches for a marker.

His skin is already marred with his habit, but he has a method of covering the old with the new. Anything less than brilliant is renewed and remembered or covered and forgotten. In the back of her mind – Girl Explicit knows that he sees her the same way in which he views his marks. How long until he no longer renews and remembers her but covers and forgets her with someone new?

Silently he reaches for her arm. Pale cold fingers with broken dirty nails covered with chipped black polish look like tapered porcelain wrapped around her wrist – delicate and determined. With his pen he scrawls bold letters across her forearm much like how she'd written down his spine.

"**EMOTIONS FADE**"

The hand writing has a childish slant but is done with a flair that John Hancock would admire. There is a pause as he examines his work and absorbs the warmth of her body into his (he's always so frigid). It's an oddly pensive moment – his whirlwind arrogance and crashing waves are paused (and in this moment she knows why she loves him). The marker in his hand moves again to tickle the skin of his lover as he edits his commentary.

(emotions)"**_LOVE_ FADES**"

He scratches out 'emotions' and replaces it with something more significant. Even through the black scribbles and revisions his message is crystal clear and cuts like a knife through the dark. He's lethal – and she likes it. No matter how dangerous she never could stop loving him (she didn't know how).

Before she has a chance to reply and try to change his mind – he grabs her hand and pulls her out the door onto the Brooklyn streets (they don't look anything like Oz). They sneak in the back of a run down dollar theatre (as is their habit) and find a deserted showing. The air reeks of stale popcorn, spilled soda pop, and sex. They aren't the only couple who use the theatre for gratification. There is no one from which to hide, but they still gravitate to the back row (are they hiding from themselves?).

It's a foreign film with subtitles and over dramatic actors. Neither really liked foreign films though they both agreed the most interesting subtitles were the emotional ones. He pulls out a marker from his second-skin jeans and it isn't long before he slumps in his seat and looks up her with washed out Atlantic eyes. They're so dark they look like an oil-spill. The familiar vacancy sends a chill down her spine (she almost joins him just to avoid that hollow stare).

Tonight though – Girl Explicit pulls him close and kisses him instead. He may not love her but he lets her make love to him in the deserted theatre. The noise from the screen was a soundtrack and a disguise for what they were doing. His shoes stick to the floor so he takes them off with no intent of replacing them on his feet. He's always been terrible at hiding evidence of where he's been or who he knew. Girl Explicit may have been the one, but she wasn't his only (he didn't always say her name). Sometimes his mouth reeks of different brands of cigarettes or the marijuana he was too thrifty to buy himself, and she knows. After all – his number has appeared on walls since she's claimed him. It doesn't surprise, but it still stings.

The metal stud in his tongue (he put it there yesterday) plays pretty patterns on her skin. She tangles a hand in his multihued hair and breathes his smell. If they were any closer he would have had to crawl inside of her body (he already is under her skin).

"Never leave me." She whispers.

"Not today."

"Not ever."

There is a kiss from boy to girl – a kind of distraction that doesn't quite work. She knows his methods and tricks better than he knows them himself.

"Promise me." Her hot breath races down his neck.

"What?" It's so hard to talk right now.

"Never leave me."

"I won't."

"Promise." He forces his eyes to hers.

"I promise." His resolve wasn't the only thing which shattered in that moment.

"Don't let your promise fade." She picks at strands of hair which stick to the sweat on his neck.

He says nothing.

The credits are rolling before they dress. When the lights come up they aren't even close to touching anymore. They're oddly awkward when the lights show them what they really are: kids who are trapped in strangely grown up bodies.

They leave the way that they came (all secret & subterfuge). It is on the walk home that he sees the writing he left on her arm and wonders how long 'never' really is. He promised not to leave, but he never promised that he wouldn't fade.

* * *

**A/N**: _(heart shatters and crumbles to the floor)_

Dang it. Some day I will write something happy! I will! I will! I will!

Thanks to ConlonsGirl, Purple Rhapsody, stress, xoborogrlxo for reviewing.


	6. 5

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: Five more chapters to go after this one! w00t! At this rate - this whole story will be posted and done by Saturday. Get excited!

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (self-mutilation, adult situations)

* * *

**Chapter 5**

v.)  
he is gone most of the time (but he's still there)  
ruby red slippers match guilty hands  
she flinches from his touch – afraid of finding something true  
he's p.o.p.p.i.n.g his seams with secrets like an old wineskin  
(she never liked his vintage)  
he's buried too deep to dig himself out (but he'll try)

* * *

His toes are clad in ruby red slippers (technically they are sneakers but no one could tell him otherwise). No matter how many times he claps his heels together – he can never go home. Maybe that is because he never knew where home was (being heartless has its drawbacks).

Today his chapped lips match his shoes in violent red: powerful & seductive. They are begging her to drag all of his hidden treasures out from their cracks with a kiss – but she never touches him. Somehow (even though she lusts after that secret knowledge) she is afraid of the words he might speak. His language is too ripe for her; kept too long and over prepared, over thought, embellished, and in the beginning stages of decay. The outside still seductive and tempting, but the insides, she knew, would be rotten and mealy.

Girl Explicit loves Boy Anachronism (lusts him as well), but she is growing less and less sure of why everyday. Every instant she spends chasing his wicked (witch) dreams she loses grasp of the reality of her love a little bit more. He may say that he lives in the here & now, but is he even trying to leave Oz behind? It isn't that she doesn't want to be with him – she just doesn't know how to save him (he's so crazy that it is driving her insane).

Where ever he is today it is Wednesday (or at least according to his day calendar on the wall). The man on the television says that it is Monday, but who knows if he is right? What is a day but another few moments to be lost (or fade away)?

The way she treats him hasn't changed. If anything she kisses him harder than before (she's unsure if it is she who is slipping away or him). Boy Anachronism can feel the difference though she hides it well. He's learned to recognize this reality after time. It isn't the first time it has happened. Girl Explicit can't help it if she isn't as experienced in the art of falling-out-of-love as he is. She isn't his first (though she is his most difficult) and he hopes that she won't be his last (he thrives on drama).

She wants to break him down and make him cry. Those tears are the only sweetness she gets from him anymore (even his kiss is bitter). He's too strung out, like pearls on a necklace, to acknowledge her most of the time.

Yesterday he went to the store and bought himself some more markers (his own pack a day habit), a Schick razor (complete with moisturizing strip), and lemons (as bitter as his kiss). When Girl Explicit finds Boy Anachronism he is picking scabs and squeezing the citrus juice into the holes. Ragged breathing pulses through the air.

"I need something that won't fade." He whispers desperately to himself (he doesn't see her in the doorway).

Before she can move to stop him a quicksilver shimmer slices an unholy diagram deep into his arm, cutting through his s(k)in, and a thick licorice red strip bubbles to the surface. Her stomach lurches at the first welling of crimson. All along she knew that he did this, but she'd never seen him actually commit the act. She's seen the scars, the scabs, the scratches, and now she she sees the slicing, slashing, and shredding.

Her feet are glued to the floor (like the shoes they left in the theatre) and she watches with horrified china doll eyes as he takes a sunshine yellow lemon and scrubs it against the strawberry gash. It feels like eternity until he gasps, clutches the wound to his stomach, and starts to cry. Without a pause she is holding him in her arms. The blood from his cut seeps into her shirt and against her skin. It is as cold as he is. She devours each glass crystal on his face greedily. This is for what she's come to live. The citrus didn't bleed into his tears. They are still her ambrosia.

When the tears stop – Boy Anachronism and Girl Explicit are in a tangled mess of limbs on the floor. Tonight, though he normally would have, he doesn't pull away. Those twisted lips move – muffled against her breasts.

"I need something not to fade."

"I won't.

"That's what I'm afraid of." He whispers but she isn't listening anymore.

It hurts too much.

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you to my lovely faithful review pannel! You are wonderful and continuously growing (_excited shout_).

Reviews are like Christmas presents to me.

They make me all little-kid like.

So make me shout some more and leave me a pretty present (review)!


	7. 6

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: Fair warning - this chapter deals with a suicide attempt. If you think that this is going to be triggering or disturbing at all (not unlike the rest of this story?) be forewarned.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (suicidal theme, adult situations)

* * *

**Chapter 6**

vi.)  
some call it a cry for help  
(but he never made a sound)  
fading can take too long for an impatient boy  
he says: "**it was supposed to make you disappear**."  
for the first time – that idea is appealing.  
he hates her more than dying.

* * *

He takes his life the same way he takes his liquor: hard and without hesitation.

For all of his delusions and high flying nature – he accepts reality's cold facts. He knows what hurt, loneliness, and fear are; he also knows that you can't bleed them out no matter how deep you cut. But you can try.

White bandage bracelets make a sharp contrast to the drink in his hand and the hair on his head, but they practically melt into his flesh. The Styrofoam cup in his hand matches the color on his wrists, and the coffee inside matches the color of his heart: black. He traced his map too deeply this time. They want him to stay in their clean sterile rooms with their paper gowns and stale food. The idea of a life confined in these walls terrifies him more than life in general (and almost as much as she scares him). They say in here that he was safe from all of his distractions because they tell him that his distractions are dangerous (but they are all that he is living for).

He's swinging his feet, bare and pale, off the edge of his metal table perch when she walks through the door. Girl Explicit catches his attention with asinine words. Smeared black mascara eyes are clear for the moment and register disappointment at seeing her. She doesn't ever understand his reactions, and she doesn't even try to justify them anymore.

"It was supposed to make you disappear." He whispers, annoyed, half to her and half to his drink. The words didn't surprise her but that didn't lessen the burn. Like lemon juice in a wound - even though you know it is coming it doesn't lessen the sting.

They're home in a few days after tests & testimonies. They had to make sure that he wasn't crazy and she told him he wasn't (a bold faced lie). Justification was that if the doctors weren't smart enough to see that this was a boy (with gashes and bruises who steals pain medications when they weren't looking) who needed help –then she wasn't going to fight it. She always hated hospitals anyway.

Boy Anachronism checks his phone and the voicemail is full. He deletes every message without listening to them. It is habit anymore (it comes with the territory). Anyone who really cared for contact tracked him down by other means than his phone. Girl Explicit is no exception to this rule.

She never asks about his others, but it bothers her more every time she remembers that she's never been enough for him. She comforts herself in the fact that in the end she's the one he comes back to – even if the time in between is less than faithful. It is a strange sort of consolation prize. What is love if she never knows if he's coming (or if she is for that matter) or going? He may drive her crazy, but she drives him to desperation (not in a good way).

This is one of the latest editions of the game that they play: trying to see who will break (out, down, through, away, in, or up) first. He may have been the first to break down, but he never would be the one to break up. He'd rather die than be the one to walk out and he proves her point with his classically dramatic flair (though it is more typical than classic). He'd always been drawn towards the theatrics of death, but he understands this: death isn't pretty, glamorous, or something after which to lust.

Death is as dark and bitter as the coffee he is staring at instead of drinking. He hates black coffee, but it is the only way that he will take it. He is so lost in his own mess of embellishment and false pretenses that he refuses to complicate his beverage as well. He hates it and he hates the idea of dying, but he hates(loves?) her more than both. His spectrum of emotions are too blurred to know which was what.

So he takes his coffee a teeth staining black and justifies everything (his black eyes, black moods, and 4our hour absences which are black in his memory) with his standard line: "Everything fades."

Girl Explicit is coming to learn how much of a lie that is.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to Tatsiana, xoborogrlxo, stress, and Purple Rhapsody for reviewing.

Four more chapters. Are you ready for this action? It doesn't get any happier (is this happy at all anyway?).

Leave me some love! I need the emotional support right now... this story is draining.


	8. 7

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: You know how some stories just are emotionally draining as you write them? Like part of your soul is being ripped out piece by tiny piece with each word you write? Yeah. That is what this story does to me. Yuck.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (mild language, adult situations)

* * *

**Chapter 7**

vii.)  
drought begs attention (he makes her beg)  
his veils are drawn TIGHT & thin  
the more they find – the less they know  
life is easier based on hypothesis  
she's misplaced her car keys (& her heart)  
& her truth detector

* * *

He hasn't cried in 30irty-2wo days and the dry spell has taken its toll. She craves his kindness(not just his body and definitely not his pity). She wants the words of praise which she knows he holds. In his tears she can taste them, and she wants more. She wants all of him, but he's spread too thin. However,he's too close to her now to hide all of his secrets. Thankfully(but thankfully for whom?) he has his escapes from her (Oz is never far – neither is a seat-belt-clad make-out session). If he couldn't get her to fade then he would.

The pink and purple lights he installed around their apartment hides the bruises where needles have pierced his skin. Sometimes markers weren't fast or hard enough and he knew who he had to kiss (or cum inside) to get what he wanted. Boy Anachronism knows just how much a smirk and some serious sex appeal can do. His reputation helps. All he has to do is give out his number and recognition (hunger) registers on unsavory faces. Just like the bathrooms - gender doesn't really matter (as long as he gets what he wants).

It is incomprehensible to him that Girl Explicit hasn't left yet (why hasn't she?). He isn't quiet with his affairs and even brings them to their apartment, but she ignores it. She is waiting until she can have him completely and it scares him. Everyone else has left him before her. Why should she be any different? He's never been one to walk away, and takes pride in always breaking them before they break him (his heart stays in tact because he sold it at a pawn shop for 15fteen dollars). Driving them away(and/or)crazy gives him the anger he needs for his lifestyle. Walking out always added to the guilt he didn't need (he already has a surplus). This time he is staying so he can remain cool, cunning, and cruel.

"You're ruining my life." He whispers against her mouth.

"I'd save you if you let me." She promises. He laughs in caustic amusement.

It's a strange kind of self-obligation and she's stayed out of stubbornness (she's sure that he can make this work). There's a little something more on her side though. She doesn't call it love anymore(he's killed that girlish fantasy). There were(and/or)are things about Boy Anachronism which she loved. That was true, but she was growing more and more confused as to which things really were Boy Anachronism and which were the lies he cleverly painted. The chameleon hair, chipped nails, flamboyant clothes, and tempest filled eyes distract from what was underneath with swirling colors and seductive charm – but she isn't complaining. She is just confused. However, his ability to flirt his way into any club and talk (sleep?) his way out of any tough situation has lost its novelty.

If she stripped away all of his black cherry smiles, sugar coated barbs, twisted perspectives, preambles, and pretenses would she still want him the way she did? Would she still want to suck his kiss and trace his treasure maps? Is she in love with the Boy Anachronism - or the idea of him? Either way – he'd lied to her so many times that she wasn't sure she even knew who he was. How could she?

He didn't even know himself.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to stress, Purple Rhapsody, xoborogrlxo, Tatsiana, and midnight1899 for your lovely reviews. 

3 chapters and it goes downhill from here. I may be sticking this in the M section soon. It is getting a little dark for T - don't you think?


	9. 8

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: So basically I am addicted to the music of Jason Robert Brown right now - and "The Scarlet Pimpernel". Musical theatre kick. Go figure.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (language, drugs, adult situations)

* * *

**Chapter 8**

viii.)   
tonight he glows in mile thick mystique  
his licorice tongue has nasty habits  
b r e a k it up to b r e a k it down  
she starting to hate his cheap cigarettes & day old gin &&  
(but not) him  
moving out(on) is(n't) an option

* * *

Tonight he's going out, but he isn't going alone. Girl Explicit doesn't tell him her plan – she just wants to see what he does when he thinks she isn't watching. She's seen him at it before and she's never grown tired of seeing the games he plays (though she has grown sick to her stomach at the sight of them). She doesn't always follow him, but she picks tonight to do so because he's pulled out all the stops. He's wearing the same black glitter smile she remembers from the first time she saw him (though it doesn't quite sparkle as brightly as she recalls) and has rimmed the rocky shores of his eyes to hide the corrosion(the Atlantic is shallow tonight). 

This is, however, how he looks whenever he is ready to leave a mark – or several: a calculated blend of sex, disinterest, and scandal. In the right light he looked like a little boy playing dress up. However, the light in the bar to where she followed him to gave no such effect. It made him ooze self-indulgence & sensuality like smoke from his pores as much as he always bled chaos and confidence (as fake as it was). Chaos never came in a prettier package than Boy Anachronism.

She watches from a corner booth, dark as pitch, and wonders if he ever knows that she watches him like this (and if it even matters to him). The bracelets and sweat bands he wears up to his elbows don't hide all of his scars. She's memorized that skin so she knows (her pride twitches when she remembers that others know that skin as well as she does). Looking at the skin-and-bones sirens passing her she wondered how many of them have witnessed all of Boy Anachronism's charms (scars).

There is a scar in his smile, though, that she knows better than any of the others. Left there by time and too many one night stands – no amount of black glitter chap-stick can hide it from her. His lying lips curl on the dance floor and that white crescent winks the scar in her direction (does he know she's there?). No one else can see that as well as she.

Half of his hair is white blonde a la Cruella De Vil (they'd watched _101 Dalmatians_ on their bootleg cable last night and he'd been inspired) and glows in a frenzied mass under the same blacks lights where she'd first seen him. The ethereal glow almost angelic as he moved to the thrumming bass (it was his own half-assed halo). The beat rocks through her whole body and recalibrates her heartbeat to a frantic pace. She knows that hers must match his now.

Shredded denim clad hips (riding dangerously low) rock to the beat in wanton invitation. He is begging for someone to come and save him in the sea of writhing humanity. Inside he knows that dancing leads to sex as much as sex leads to dancing. You have to want them both to make them happen (he'll make them happen). As much as he loves sweat and blood on the dance floor – they just aren't as good as they are in the bedroom. He lusts them – because they are his essence.

A hard breath, a whispered caress – he presses himself against the girls. There is no room for softness with him. He wants to hurt. That is where he finds the hate which he thinks keeps him going (he'd be surprised if he knew what his real driving force is).

A few more shots, a few more touches, and she grows tired of watching him destroy himself. Grasping those undulating hips she identifies herself with a kiss. He knows her taste even if he is too drunk to see straight.

"Let's go." She speaks into his smoky hair over the trance music.

"Why don't you ever leave?" He smiles hysterically(knowing inside that he can count the days before she's gone). "When are you going to fade?" Manic laughter (he's breaking in half).

She doesn't bother answering because he's too drunk to understand what she would like to say. He's spouting poetry and babbling off words incoherently (he's trying to warn her against him, but it is too late for words like that). In the haze of it all she hears "I need the Tin Man's heart". With an arm around her shoulder and a hand around her heart – they stagger back to their apartment.

Before he drifts off to sleep he looks up and sees her stroking his colorful hair back from his forehead. There are stars dancing around her head and for a moment he appreciates her (he's too far gone to remember that he's supposed to hate her). He doesn't know why she is there because everything in his mind has told him that she should be gone by now.

"Are you home?" he mutters non-sensically, not understanding the implication of his words.

"Yes. I am home." She doesn't hide the sadness in her voice at the admittance.

He gives her his best scared smile before his body goes slack and she is left watching him breathing.

He's too shattered and scattered to clean up after much longer, but her broken pieces are too mixed among his now to be able to pick them all out. They'd fallen apart together too many times to tell the difference between where he started and she began. One could not fade without the other.

And she's learning that the hard way.

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you to stress, Purple Rhapsody, and midnight1899 for reviewing! 

Only three reviews though you guys? Seriously. I guess I am just scaring people off with dark!Spot.

In other news: I saw Pirates of the Caribbean II yesterday, and it was one of the worst movies I've ever seen.

Johnny Depp, however, was ridiculously good looking and just seeing his face made my life a better place.


	10. 9

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: It's morning, morning, morning! For some reason I felt the need to proclaim that three times as my author's note. Thank you for indulging me.

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (adult situations)

* * *

**Chapter 9**

ix.)  
they're fighting to breathe (and losing)  
choked by irony & illusions  
they'll never be all she wants  
(he's missed her for years)  
& that's only the beginning  
he can't imagine how wrong he's been

* * *

She's spoon feeding him all of the words she wants him to say, but none of them taste right. He hasn't been able to eat them for days. Maybe it is the drugs or just the hangover from an accumulation of too many overwrought emotions. Whatever it is - her words do nothing but make him sick to his stomach. Girl Explicit smoothes back his ever changing coif as he vomits violently – ridding his palate of all of her _I'll never fade'_s and _I love you no matter what_'s. He's never had a high tolerance for sweets (he can't tollerate her love - no matter how dilluted). With a ball of moist paper towels she hands to him, the fibers falling apart in a soggy mess, he wipes away all residue of remorse which made a ring around his mouth. He won't feel badly for not being able to stomach her romantic notions (she's cancer to his promiscuous lifestyle). 

When he is done he lets Girl Explicit cradle his head against her breast (he feels so familiar in her arms) as long as she promises to keep all of her nasty words to herself. He can't allow himself the luxary of believing them. He also knows that her holding him always leads to much more interesting things & this time will not be an exception(pointless justification). She never has been able to say "no".

He has tried to burn off his fingerprints with too hot coffee, but she feels their ridges now and knows that they will be bruised into her hips in the morning. He can erase his fingerprints as easily as he can erase who is really is under all of his mess (not at all) and he hates it(himself). He wants to share his mess, infect her with all of his corruption and chaos, until she is as lost and confused as he is (he's closer to his goal than he can imagine). For too long his skin has been branded by black ink, scar tissue, & make-out sessions. I guess you could say that he's grown tired of the clutter, but it all he has to hide behind. He covets the flawless skin of his more pious counterparts.

"Don't leave a mark." He whispers as her lips trace patterns on his neck (he wants the best of both worlds: a flawless beauty & and faithless bed).

"You've made scars inside of me that have ruined my life." This hiss in her voice, like water on hot steel, lets him know that she's serious. "Don't tell me not to leave a mark." There's a catch in her words but she doesn't cry. She's past tears.

It is only fair after all. He's been leaving marks on her ever since their first encounter on the bathroom floor. She feels the need to brand him in attempts to remove the stains left on him by others before her. She hates the pollution of the others on his body (she feels it creep onto her skin when she touches him).

It's rare and growing rarer that he holds her after it is all said and done. Blame it on his Dorothy red shoes and that he knows that she is fading (the idea doesn't bring him the joy he expected). Somehow he knows that this is the last time he will touch her. So, he clings to her tonight like a child does his mother (he's already suckled her teat) while babbling nonsensical words overlapping with ragged breathing into her hair. There is so much he could say to her, but none of the words taste right on his tongue and she barely hears him anymore. Occasionally she picks up a few words, but nothing that makes her take interest in his discourse. She drifting to sleep in his hollow embrace (expecting him to be gone when she wakes up and not knowing it would be reversed) until he rolls her over to look straight into his sea-salt eyes.

"Icarus flew too high for his wings to hold him." There is a frantic pitch to his whisper - he can't do this anymore. "Some fade too quickly - some without even knowing." He often speaks in riddles but this time he is giving her the answer.

It's urgent. He's begging her to understand everything he's tried to tell and show her for months. She hasn't picked up on his hints before (she hasn't wanted to), but the look in her eyes lets him know that she finally understands what he's known all along: they're not going to last, because in his world nothing does, so why drag it out any longer? He needs her to leave tonight (he doesn't realize that if she leaves she will vicariously take him with her). She's already ruined his life.

She may have ruined his life, but he has ruined _her_ entirely. Even with all of her good intentions and stubborn self-righteousness she was unable to stop the inevitable which he had predicted for so long. She may have promised not to fade, but she did, and he feels it (he's been helping her along because he can't stand the idea of being happy with anyone). Girl Explicit has now learned what he's been trying to teach her since the beginning. The idea of him wasn't enough to hold them together the way she needed them to be, but it was enough to tear them apart (he doesn't know how to love her the way Hollywood tells her that he should).

One rivulet of water trickles down the contour of his cheek (its his way of purging her from his system) and she captures in her kiss. The flavor of his tear radiates in her mouth, but it isn't the sweetness she needs or recalls. It leaves a sour residue on her tongue (all of the digust he's felt towards her and how his predictions are coming true are in that tear) and the bitterness of his kiss catches in the back of her throat. Now it is her turn to be nauseous and she pulls back.

She doesn't leave right away. She turns over so that her back is facing him and he cradles her body against his. Again the warmth from her form seeps out through her skin into his. Her head is spinning so fast with the truth that she is dizzy from lack of focus. This is the end. Girl Explicit waits for the breathing of Boy Anachronism to enter that slumberous state before she slips out of his arms. She doesn't look at Boy Anachronism as she dresses hurriedly and grabs only what is important to her (her wallet, keys, fragments of a life before him which she barely remembers - but she doesn't take him). Five minutes is all she gives herself or else she'll lose her courage.

Her love (was that what it was?) didn't fade (though it would have been much easier for everyone if it had since love is so hard after which to clean), but she did. She was sucked so deeply into the endless depth of his ocean eyes and cobwebbed confusion that she'd lost all sight of anything that she was. He'd done a wicked deed by absorbing her into himself only to be happy to spit her back up with her venom-like _I love you_s. She'd drowned in him and now lay wasted and broken on the shore.

She is tired.

As she walks out the door for the last time – Girl Explicit grabs a pen and wrote on the wall:

_LA TRISTESSE DURERA TOUJOURS  
_

The pen clattering on the floor is the last Boy Anachronism would hear from Girl Explicit. Like Icarus before her – she flew high for awhile but ended up scattered across the ocean floor (she'd drowned in his Atlanic eyes). Vincent van Gogh shot himself in the chest in a field of flowers then died two days later - and nothing really mattered after that.

_LA TRISTESSE DURERA TOUJOURS_

(the sadness will last forever)

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to -'0'EmeraldEyes'0'-, Purple Rhapsody, stress, and Tatsiana for reviewing! 

One more chapter to go. Does that kind of make you sad? It really kind of makes me sad. Maybe I'll just never post the last chapter and that way the story would never be over! Wouldn't that just make me the most popular girl ever?


	11. 10

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

* * *

**A/N**: This chapter deals heavily with the issue of suicide. I don't take this lightly and if you think that this subject matter will be triggering to you I advise you not to read it. If you are contemplating suicide or know someone who is - please seek help.With that said - here we go with **_the __last _**chapter... deep breath

* * *

**Warning**: PG-13 (suicide, language)

* * *

**Chapter 10**

x.)  
he'd always been infatuated with _penetration_  
invasive – just like him  
she couldn't love the death out of him  
his succubus nature made it difficult  
he says: "everything _fades_"  
he was dead (wrong)

* * *

Forked tongue wag in accusation and he knows what they are saying without even hearing a single word. He knows that he's not supposed to be there but he's never been good at doing what he is supposed to do. He has a way of attracting all shades of death (except his own) and he knows what those enraged eyes are saying to him: "you sucked the life out of her." 

There are no bright colors in his hair today – just a stoic black to match the lines around his bloodshot blue eyes. The only color he showcases today are those ruby red sneakers which have somehow found his feet(as tacky as it is). Those lips stay the same mocking twisted black glitter he keeps as a trademark. There was no one there who would recognize it, however. None of _those_ friends (is that what they are?) would be caught dead in a church (or maybe dead was the only way that they would be there).

There is barbed wire in his eyes (keeping him guarded) and cracks in his smile (you can see the scar through them). He hadn't been the one to walk away, but now he wished that he was (he'd rather have apathy than this agony and guilt instead of grief). He knows it is his fault. It isn't supposed to affect him like this (he isn't supposed to care).

The envelope she'd left with his name on it is left unopened on the bedroom floor under the pink&purple lights. He doesn't need to open it. He knows what it will say (even if he doesn't want to understand it). Her love for him was/is completely unreasonable (her death is almost as unreasonable as her love).

There are pictures of saints on the walls and Jesus hanging on the cross. They all seemed to be staring at him and he is just crazy enough to believe that they actually are and that they _know_all of the things he did to Girl Explicit (those forked tongues must have told them). Boy Anachronism can feel his sin crawling over his skin in attempts to hide (but that is no use). All of their eyes are saying the same thing about him and calling him a name that isn't his own but could be:

_Judas - the betrayer._

In terror Boy Anachronism runs out the door and onto the streets of Brooklyn. Ruby red runs without missing a beat away from the angry pointed fingers and accusing eyes from both the saints and sinners (anyone is holier than he). Back to the apartment (he hasn't been there since the day she walked out one week ago) the Boy Anachronism frantically gathers all of the markers he can find. Some of them are dry from his habits, but others are ready for his purpose. Pulling off the caps with his teeth he writes on the walls with large sloppy letters.

"I'm sorry." He mutters under his breath and he means it. "I'm sorry." The repetition is necessary even if none of those saints are there to hear him now.

He is fumbling with the pens (he must have a dozen) and remembers the feel of the felt tip tracing down his spine. He hadn't left. She had. It is supposed to be better this way.

Boy Anachronism wastes (away) pen after pen with his messages. With handwriting as slanted and childish as ever he scrawls 7even numbers that won't reach anyone anymore on every single wall. All of these walls have never been touched with the markers (he's stealing their virginity) since he's always had other uses for the ink (except for the one where Girl Explicit had left her parting phrase). Underneath the digital phone address he leaves a message for the world to see but for only him to understand.

**I THINK I LOVE YOU**

The smell of the ink is intoxicating. He used to crave it, but now it makes him sick and his stomach lurches. Nothing can save him now – not even a trip away to a city as real as he is. He'd already looked for her there in Oz but he never found her (she really was gone). Pen after pen meets with its fate as he manically scribes on any and every surface he can find. He'd never managed to let her know while she was here, (even though he'd fucked her against most of these walls - he hadn't known until she was gone) but he is never going to leave any doubt when it all comes full circle.

**I THINK I LOVE YOU**

Again and again he writes until he has returns to the wall where she'd left her text (he'd copied the text onto his body and googled it so he would know what it meant).

_LA TRISTESSE DURERA TOUJOURS  
_

The sadness will last forever. He may have been the type to deal in absolutes (black&white was easier than gray), but forever was too long even for him (it was longer than 'never' in his mind). He goes to their bedroom and stares at the envelope with the letter she'd written him. There is no way that he will open it and read the content. He has no want to know to read her sugar-sweet _I love you_s because he's always known that. He already knows that it was his fault (it was always all about him) that she is gone and how she would say that it isn't (comfort often comes in the form of lies). What he hadn't know was that he reciprocated in his own strange way. Even his love was backwards (he confused it with hate).

There is a box on the nightstand by their (now only his) bed and he opens it. Inside there are several shiney toys (his jewelry, saftey-pins, and razor blades). He reaches for a tool which will help him find his hidden treasure (this time he won't make a mistake). _Tap – tap – tap –_ he's ready to go home. If Icarus can fall – so can Boy Anachronism.

He'd been wrong (about her and a few other things) and he knows it now but he would die before he admitted it (and he's going to proove that point). The world he'd invented to protect himself had destroyed him (and her). He will never be able to scrub the residue of her love off of his over marked skin. She said that he had left a scar inside of her, but she has left a scar of her own. The stains left by others could not compare to the blemish she'd left on his inkstained heart.

"I think I love you, Sarah Jacobs." He whispers to no one in particular (ironic that the first time he said her name would be his last words).

He went like this: Hissing breath, manic laughter, choking sobs, and then - silence.

By the time they find him it is too late. He'd burned up falling through the atmosphere. The brilliant red surrounding him on the bathroom floor was proof of the fire which had consumed him. There aren't any letters. No one would care enough to read them (after all - she was the only one who really cared).

The most brilliant stars fade, memories fade, pain, hate, hurt, fear, guilt, depression, apathy, & agony all fade (even if you have a taste for them – they require constant renewal and fuel). Love, however, never really fades (even if you want it to).

Vincent van Gogh shot himself in the chest in a field of flowers then died two days later. Virginia Wolfe walked into the river with rocks in her pockets. Icarus made a crash landing. Boy Anachronism clicked the heels of his razor blade slippers together & went home.

Nothing really mattered after that.

* * *

**A/N**: Oh boy. It's done. Take it as you will. Thank you all for you faithful reading, but thank you especially to the following: stress, xoborogirlxo, Purple Rhapsody, and -'0'EmeraldEyes'0'- for reading and reviewing most (if not all) of my chapters and giving me such lovely feedbacks. Thanks to stress, xoborogrlox, midnight1899, Purple Rhapsody, and -'0'EmeraldEyes'0'- for reviewing the previous chapter. 

As you can probably tell - there will not be a sequel to this piece as I killed both of the main characters. I would, however, love to try another piece in this style in the future. There are several other things, however, which need my attention first (cough-lovingbrooklyn-cough).

Wow. It's over. Ugh. That makes me almost more sad than the content.


End file.
